a hymn for the lonely and the broken
by QuietLittleVoices
Summary: No one was ever really sure of the date anymore. The only signals of time passing where the frequent rise and fall of the sun, the come and go of darkness occasionally broken up by stars, and the much more gradual rolling in of the cold front, a white blanket that covered everything and made life damn near impossible for four months. (Dean/Cas, End!verse, canonical MCD)


No one was ever really sure of the date anymore. The only signals of time passing where the frequent rise and fall of the sun, the come and go of darkness occasionally broken up by stars, and the much more gradual rolling in of the cold front, a white blanket that covered everything and made life damn near impossible for four months. No one even tried to keep track of the date, not even Chuck, who'd taken it upon himself to try and keep everything as normal as possible while living in the camp. They didn't want to know; didn't want to think about how long they'd been living like they were, or how much longer they had left. To live, to hunt; the lines blurred.

_O, come all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant_.

So when Dean caught the vaguest murmur of a half-forgotten hymn at breakfast, he didn't know how to react. He wasn't even sure he'd heard right, it must've been his mind pulling the sounds together into something cheerful he remembered in the back of his mind. That happened sometimes; a defense mechanism that was a lot more healthy than most of his others. But then he heard it again, and it was unmistakeable.

_O, come ye. O, come ye to Bethlehem. _

It was ironic, at best, that that was the carol they'd chosen to sing. Dean couldn't help but laugh, though the sound came out and fell flat in the snow that he trudged through. They didn't have time for this; didn't have time to gather 'round the Christmas tree and trade presents. Didn't have a place to get presents in the first place, anyway. But though their voices were rough and they weren't all singing at the same time, the sound was pleasant. It was happy – or as happy as anything could be anymore – and Dean reviled in it.

_Come and behold him, born the King of Angels._

And every time he turned a corner to see just exactly who the carollers were, they dispersed, thinking that they were going to be reprimanded. So he let them continue their song, and listened from around the corner, or standing just outside the door. Until he finally got a front row seat, walking in on Cas lying on his back with a hand-rolled cigarette between his fingers singing to himself. It was loud and rough and it was the most beautiful thing Dean had heard in a long time.

_O, come, let us adore him; Christ the Lord_.

He stood there for a while, unmoving, listening the sound of the fallen angels voice fill the room. Cas wasn't a good singer by any stretch of the imagination. He might've been, once; Dean could hear the potential sitting there deep in the back of his throat. But he'd fallen and been ripped apart and then been sown together by Dean and his clumsy hands with only rusted wire and old twine and nails he'd once used on himself, so the once pleasant noise had been scratched up, covered in layers of smoke and alcohol and doubt.

_O, sing, choirs of angels; sing in exaltation_.

Dean cleared his throat and the sound came out like broken glass. Cas didn't move, so he stamped his feet a few times to get the snow off, letting it fall in the shape of his footprints on the floor around him. He could feel a cold wind at his back, blowing in a small snowdrift from the side of their cabin, so he shut the door and toed off his boots, tossing his jacket against a wall where it fell haphazardly in a pile. Foregoing words, he let himself fall into the empty space that had been left by him by the angel, more out of habit than honest consideration.

_Sing all that hear in heaven God's holy word_

He closes his eyes, voluntarily lets the darkness take him over. They're not touching, but he can feel the solidness of his all too familiar bedmate lying next to him, can almost feel the warmth coming off him while the cold chill rattled their windows and demanded to be let in. They kept it out all these years by sheer force of will, but Dean could feel the edges of it creeping in – could see it in the corners of his eyes before he focused on it.

_Give to our Father glory in the highest_

Cas had stopped singing and the thick blanket of silence fell over the room, incomplete for the soft sound of snow falling on the other side of the door. If he strained, Dean could hear someone else singing not too far away, but he was tired. The covering of quiet was weighted heavy on his chest, lulling him to sleep with a murmured promise, and he could almost feel Cas move closer against his side, curling against him like he did when he fell. Holding on like Dean was his anchor.

_All Hail! Lord, we greet thee; born this happy morning_

In the morning, he was alone, but that wasn't new. He'd find Cas tucked away somewhere later, either asleep or drugged half out of his mind, but that wasn't new, either. He didn't let it trouble him when he went to breakfast, and he listened to four others join together in an attempt at harmonizing carols that weren't entirely recalled. Their failure was utterly spectacular but they were laughing, and so where one or two others around them, and that almost made Dean smile. It would be for the first time in a long time. But his face had forgotten how to move that way, so he remained stoic as he ate, and then left as soon as he was done.

_O Jesus! Forevermore be Thy name adored_

**A/N: **I'm sorry. Also I don't own anything.

* * *

By afternoon there was too much snow to leave the camp. He knew instinctively that it was one of the worst winters that the area had seen in a long time, which was fitting to the end of the world. They couldn't leave the camp, but the infected Croatoans couldn't reach them. Everything was at a standstill. And, for a short while, it would be okay. This little slice of a normal life after so long without even the vaguest notion was okay.

_Word of the Father, now in flesh appearing_

But a lot changes in a year. A lot of people die, others succumb to the ever spreading virus, and things only get worse and worse outside their walls. The numbers in the camp dwindle and then boom, going down to five and back up to near a hundred. At some point, Dean stops learning everyone's name the day they show up to camp. If they last a month, then he might think about it. Better than getting attached. It's autumn when they get a line on Lucifer, and it's autumn when a him who claims to be from the past shows up. That doesn't halt plans, and so they go and they fight the Devil. Dean had no notion that he'd make it out alive, and he can only feel the cold of the bottom of the shined white shoe against his face. Everything else is numb, floating. He can't see anything, can't smell, can't taste, and slowly everything goes away. And as his consciousness fades into nothing, he hears a rough but somehow pleasant and achingly familiar voice singing a hymn next to him in a cold bed.

_O, come all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant._


End file.
